Candlelight
by Riene
Summary: They both appreciate the candlelight, and what happens there. Rated M, NSFW. E/C. Complete.


**A/N** -This little piece just showed up a couple weeks ago, and previewers seemed to like it. Definitely NSFW. This is not everyone's cup of tea, and I understand that, so please don't read if it's not. Otherwise...enjoy.

~R

Candlelight

December 2017 Riene

She sits before the mirror at the dressing table, running her fingers through her damp curls, the towel discarded on the floor beside her. If she doesn't finger-comb her hair first there will be no getting the comb through it.

The moisture begins to seep into her robe and impatiently she slides it off her arms, allowing it to pool about her waist. There's no one here; she stretches her arms up in a balletic move, gracefully swaying, stretching, watching her breasts pull taut and high in the mirror. Smiling slightly, she runs her hands over the soft globes, fuller now than when she was a dancer, feeling the nipples harden slightly from the brief touch and in the cool air.

The glass and gold tray before her bears cut-crystal jars of various scents and creams, powders and oils. He has chosen them for her, not the exotic scents of the East, but sweeter, simpler aromas…rosewater, violet cream, honey and almond, lily, freesia, and goat's milk, all expensive, all meant to keep her skin smooth and supple in the chill air of the catacombs.

He likes her skin to be soft.

She picks up the comb again and begins to work.

He watches her from the doorway, bare shoulders rising above the carved seatback, the soft glow of candlelight turning her ivory skin a soft warm peach. He's saved their room for last, to install the new electrical wiring. Something about the warmth of the flame's light making the room, and what takes place there, magical, dreamlike.

Sensuously she stretches, and his mouth goes dry, seeing the rosy peaks of her nipples in the glass. He watches as she leans forward and ponders her choices, at last lifting a small oval container. She lifted the lid, sniffing it delicately, like a cat, shutting her eyes in pleasure. Slender fingers dip in and begin to slowly spread the luxurious rich emoluments on her skin, and he can stand it no more.

He appears out of nowhere, silent and severe, the black silk mask half covering his face, eyes glowing golden in the candlelight. He stands behind her, eyes on hers in the mirror, and she blushes.

Slowly he strips off the black leather gloves, dropping them on the dressing table, and takes the jar from her. His eyes have never left hers in the mirror. His thin fingers dip in, removing a creamy dollop of lotion, and he rubs it in his hands, warming them. A moment later her eyes shut in pleasure, and she emits a small gasp as those long hands caress her skin, starting as her shoulders, down her chest and belly, rising to cup and stroke the satiny skin of her breasts.

"Erik," she breathes softly, swaying. His hands, cool and powerful, are feather-light against her flesh, raising goose bumps and pooling warmth between her legs as her sweeps her hair aside to trail thin lips against her neck, her throat. His hands continue to rub the cream into her back, going lower, lower, reaching her buttocks and molding them to his hands.

He is achingly hard now, desire pounding in his groin, but not yet, not yet. He pulls her up, naked, the robe slithering to the floor, her head barely reaching his shoulder, starkly pale against his black garb. One hand curls around her waist, caressing, brushing her skin, coming up to cup her breast, his thumb swirling around her nipple. She leans her head back against him, pliant, relaxed, allowing him to touch her, watching their reflections in the mirror. She feels his hardness and heat against her buttocks and knows how this night will end.

His long fingers splay across her belly, pressure and promise. His hand moves down, barely brushing her curls, and she is so sensitive, so swollen, that the slightest touch makes her knees weak. She hears his soft laughter, barely there, and he draws one long cool finger down the crevice of her body. When he touches her _there_ , she nearly swoons.

"Erik, please…" she whimpers, and he sweeps her into his arms, crossing the room in two strides, laying her splayed on the bed, and she feels no embarrassment, no shame, as his glowing eyes move over every inch of her bare skin. He is her husband, her lover, her secret, and they have done this many times before.

He falls to his knees before her, a goddess, his for the taking, and a moment later the mask flutters to the floor. He kisses the inside of her thigh, soft and supple, long graceful legs with a dancer's musculature. He lifts each leg over his arms, cradling her, and blows gently on her engorged flesh. She is wet, and moans his name, surely the most erotic thing he's ever heard, and waits no more.

He explores her thoroughly with his tongue, each fold, each hidden part of her that only he will ever know. She cries out at his touch, arching on the bed, and he holds her down, his hand on her belly, and suckles her, teasing the hard peaks with slow steady swirls and lashes. He knows what she wants but he will not give it to her, waiting until she is closer to her pleasure. Under his hand, her stomach muscles bunch, her legs twitching, and he slides two long digits inside, rubbing that certain spot just on the top of the channel with the rough pads of his musician's fingers, and she cries out, spasming around his hand, and he reflects again he is the only one to ever hear her beautiful voice strike quite that tone.

She lies there, feeling the tremors slowly ebbing from her body. If this is sin, she prays she never enters heaven. But she is not sated, not yet. She needs more, wants more, wants him buried deep inside her.

And so she stands on weak legs, kissing him, her tongue flicking against his, and feels him push against her. Her fingers are quick, nimble, as the buttons slide from their stitched holes and garments fall one by one to the floor. Naked, he is a god among men, and hers alone to worship; tall, broad shoulders, narrow hips, his skin pale ivory and marked with the lines of his past, of his suffering.

She has seen to it that he suffers no more. She has kissed every inch of his body, touched and caressed and stroked every part of him, hearing him cry out in his golden voice in ecstasy. She pulls him to the bed, square, capable hands on his chest, urging him downward, and he needs no other orders. She straddles him, knees to either side of his hips, and leans over, hard nipples brushing his chest, and he groans at the sight of her, reaching up to pull the ribbon from her hair. It cascades down around her, a curtain of rich coffee-colored curls, and he raises his hands, fondling her breasts.

She bends over, kissing him again, and works her way down his chest, enjoying the way his abdomen tightens under her lips as she follows the dark line of hair lower still. He gasps as she takes him in her mouth, his voice a glorious breathy rush of words in other languages, some of which she suspects are very bad indeed, and his long fingers snake into her hair, cradling her head even as her tongue swirls around him.

He is thick and tight, straining upward, hips thrusting, but she will not grant him relief yet, not when there is something she wants. With one final swirl, she releases him, letting him come down from that near-precipice, caressing him with both hands. He opens those golden eyes, a look of hunger for her that she can no longer deny, and she moves forward, straddling him, pulling him flush against her stomach, stroking him. "Christine," he groans, his hands grasping her buttocks and urging her upwards.

She needs no other urging, lowering herself slowly down, stretching in a pleasurable way, until he is buried deeply inside. She leans forward as his hands wrap around her hips, and he thrusts upward, panting, unwilling to hold back any longer. This is the apex of her pleasure, the friction both inside and out, and she concentrates on matching his rhythm until she is crying out, shuddering above him, collapsing on his chest.

With one swift move he flips them both over and her arms wrap around him, legs rising to grant him deeper access. Above he is diving into her with long undulating strokes, one arm around her back, holding her tightly to him, the other braced on the mattress, pulling almost completely out and thrusting in again, sending new lightning-bolts of pleasure against her swollen flesh, but she is too sated, too tired, to reach that pinnacle again.

She feels the shudder start in his back even as he thrusts in deeply, again and again, feeling that hot flush inside as he reaches his pleasure, his glorious voice crying out in a hoarse wild shout, primal and elated. He rolls them over to lie together in a tangle of legs, boneless and exhausted, the sheen of perspiration cooling on their skin.

He opens those golden eyes, staring into hers, then shutting them. "Christine," he murmurs, a world of meaning in the word, his voice like a prayer.

"Erik," she says, caressing his ruined face, kissing his thin lips, and his arms tighten about her.

She pulls the covers around them both, a protection against the cool air of the underground rooms. Already his face is relaxing into sleep, and she eyes the candle, much too comfortable to get up. It will be safe on the table, and she will be safe in his arms. His arms, her lover, her husband, her life.

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Thank you for reading, and please review.

Merry Christmas, everyone. :)


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